


stardust

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/F, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 06:30:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13698807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: Here is another marvel that catches Ginny’s eye: a girl. Strangely plain in this sea of nymphs and sprites and monsters and mayhem. She has hair the colour of straw, but Ginny knows, somehow, that if she were to run her fingers through it, she would feel silk and wheat and the soft, tugged-free threads that hang from the sleeve of mother’s favourite sweater.And that is where the strange love begins.





	stardust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [untilourapathy (gwendolen_lotte)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwendolen_lotte/gifts).



> This is re-worked from the book, Stardust, by Neil Gaiman. And it's really weird, and a style I've never done before, but I really hope you like it! (And I hope you like it, G, despite the weirdness, because you're the one who made me write this pairing).

Here is a tale, say the stars, of a strange sort of love. If they could write, they would write it down for the world to see, but they can’t, so I’ll tell it instead. They trust me, you see, with this sort of knowledge. The kind of knowledge that could crumble walls. 

Ginny is one of those girls who doesn’t feel quite right in the world. She doesn’t fit, hasn’t found her place, and really, what _is_ a place, when you think about it? Is there truly a neat little nook for each creature to slot into, or is there more? There must be more. That’s what Ginny thinks, anyway, and I won’t say whether it’s because she hasn’t found her place, or if she truly believes that there isn’t a place to find. 

Here we have Ginny, a misplaced girl, walking down a street with a bundle of daisies clenched in one fist. There's a gaggle of brothers and a father and a worried mother waiting for her at home, and a girl she quite likes behind her, in a field, drinking the expensive wine she scrimped and saved to buy. The night hasn’t gone the way she wants, and let me tell you, that’s not something Ginny approves of. 

She can’t go back, and she doesn’t want to go forward, so she goes down instead, down the hill, across the fields of dew-ridden grass, over the stye with very little grace, and over to the wall that marks the end of town. There’s an old man there, guarding a break in the wall, and the people in town say he’s a wizard, but Ginny knows he’s just an old kook. I can’t tell you, dear reader, if she’s right, but I’m sure you can work it out from the way his beard falls just so and his eyes twinkle. 

She goes right past him, thrusts the daisies at his chest. He takes them, and he doesn’t stop her. She won’t be stopped, not tonight. Maybe not ever. Maybe he knows that, or maybe he knows about the strange love that can be found through the wall, but let’s not think about that too hard. 

The air is different behind the wall. Thicker, maybe, with rich scents and spices, and lighter, maybe, with a sense of wonder and awe. A sense of impossibility, too, but Ginny doesn’t believe in impossibility. It rather dampens the mood, a little, in my opinion, her unwillingness to be impressed, but my opinion isn’t important. 

The path takes her up into the woods at the crest of the hill, and out into a caravan park. 

A caravan park doesn’t sound very remarkable, but let me remark on it regardless. The caravans are ice blue and ebony and pale yellow, their doors flung open to spill their wares out onto cloth-laden stalls. Lights are strung from the trees, and on second glance, it’s fairies that fill the glass jars of each lantern, emitting a soft, pearlescent glow. The scents are deeper here, as is the noise, and Ginny moves through the babbling crowd in bewilderment. 

Magic is not quite unknown, but it is still a marvel. Not talked about, that sort of thing. Whispered about, sometimes, if people are feeling daring. Ginny’s never seen anything quite like this, though. 

The people are not people at all; some are smaller and some are larger and some have wings and horns and tusks sprouting from their backs and chins and heads. There are some other, less mentionable appendages, too, that make Ginny grin fiercely, but we won’t go into detail. The less said, the better. 

Things catch Ginny’s eye. She spots corked vials filled with bubbling liquids, skulls blossoming with pansies and roses and daisies. She averts her eyes from those, her empty fist clenching tightly around phantom stems. There are many other marvels to look at, like the basins full of dreams and wisps of clouds for sale, and pocketbooks full of the future, and an old record player that plays the mournful tune of loss. 

Here is another marvel that catches Ginny’s eye: a girl. Strangely plain in this sea of nymphs and sprites and monsters and mayhem. She has hair the colour of straw, but Ginny knows, somehow, that if she were to run her fingers through it, she would feel silk and wheat and the soft, tugged-free threads that hang from the sleeve of mother’s favourite sweater. 

And that is where the strange love begins. 

She makes her way towards the girl, who sits on the step of a pale pink caravan. Her ankles are crossed under a full yellow skirt. A chain loops around her left ankle, each link glinting unkindly in the fairy light. No one else is here, around this stall, which is littered with glass flowers, and Ginny steps forward determinedly. I’m not quite sure how one can step in such a way, but I can assure you that Ginny manages it. 

“You won’t like the price,” the girl says, looking up. Ginny flounders, her mouth moving soundlessly. It’s a sight her parents would have liked to see, a sight her brothers would have liked to snicker at. 

“Of asking your name?”

The girl looks sharply surprised. She slips to her feet and pads, barefoot, across the mossy earth. Her hands flutter over the stall, grazing the glass flowers. 

“Of these.” She smiles, a hint of teeth. “The name is free, if you tell me yours.”

“Ginny,” she offers. 

“Hannah.”

It doesn’t feel free. Ginny opens her mouth, lets the word in, lets it shape her. The strange love is right there, right in front of them. 

“It’s nice,” Ginny says, grimacing, but not, as you might think, at a lie, but at her own inability to charm her. Hannah smiles, and it baffles Ginny, the way her heart tries to escape at the sight. Where on _earth_ could it be trying to go?

Maybe not on earth. Maybe up, past the sky and into the stars, who have more of this story to share. Because it doesn’t end with an exchange of names, no, it barely even begins there. 

“Why won’t I like the price of these?” Ginny asks. The flowers are pretty, otherworldly and they gleam with knowledge and luck and prosperity. Any one of them would suit her, she thinks, and I’ll tell you that the stars agree. The daffodil would look nice in Hannah’s hair. The stars agree with that, too. 

“This one costs a fortune,” Hannah explains, pointing at a bachelor button. “All of your fortune, in fact, and any fortune you may come across in the future. The carnation requires a learned skill. The petunia takes your ability to forgive.”

“What about the daisy?” Ginny asks. She can’t help but ask. 

“Just a kiss.” Hannah brushes it aside, but Ginny picks it up. She holds it out, and Hannah takes it slowly, her eyes a little wide. The moment seems to stretch, expand. 

“I’ll just fetch the kissing-ogre, then,” Hannah says. “You know, nobody’s ever picked the kiss before.”

Ginny is too stuck on ‘kissing-ogre’ to really respond. She looks a sight, if I may say, with her eyes all blown wide like that, and her mouth hanging open in horror. Hannah seems to think so too, because her mouth twitches, and the laughter bubbles out of her, frothing and fumbling its way into the air. 

“No one really has picked the kiss before, so I’ve never been able to use that joke.”

Ginny sags against the table with all the grace of a rampaging minotaur, which is to say, with very little grace at all. 

“Do you still want the daisy?” Hannah asks, teasing, light, unexpectant. 

“I’d prefer the kiss, but not from the ogre” Ginny says, without thinking. I think that not thinking works quite well for Ginny, if I’m honest, and if the way Hannah blushes brightly is any indication. “If you don't mind.”

Hannah straightens her skirts. “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

Ginny holds out her hand, after a moment, her heart beating wildly, as hearts are wont to do when there are pretty girls and future-kisses present. 

“You may have to come here, actually,” Hannah says, gesturing to the chain around her ankle. “This won’t let me go any further.”

Ginny kneels immediately, and slips a knife from her boot. She’s that sort of girl, you see, although if you hadn’t guessed that already, then I don’t quite know what to tell you. The knife cuts through the chain, to a brief shout of triumph, and then slides back together seamlessly. Ginny blinks, stares, and then stands slowly. 

“You’re a prisoner,” she states, and Hannah tucks her hair behind her ear, nodding. 

“Not forever,” Hannah says. “Just until the witch dies.”

There’s no sign of this witch, but I will say that she’s not a pleasant woman. Mad and bitter and brimming with vile hatred. Not the kind of person who approves of kisses outside caravans. 

Luckily, Ginny is not the sort to care about what unpleasant witches approve of. 

“You may want to hurry,” Hannah says. “The market dies soon, and it won’t live again until tomorrow night. That is, if you still want that kiss.”

She tucks the glass daisy behind Ginny’s ear, and the brush of lemon-scented hands against her cheek is enough to startle Ginny’s pulse. 

“Hurry,” Hannah murmurs. 

“Trust me, this isn’t something I want to rush,” Ginny says. She bends at the waist and kisses Hannah’s hand, lips just barely brushing the back of her knuckles. Hannah’s eyes brighten, and she bites her lip as Ginny draws back. 

“I suppose you’ll have to keep coming back, then.”

Ginny grins. “I suppose I will.”

And that is where the strange love _truly_ begins.

**Author's Note:**

> Wild. And weird af. Please leave a comment/kudos if you enjoyed it, and come say hey @thealmostrhetoricalquestion on tumblr, I'd love to hear from you! Thank you so much!


End file.
